I am destruction (decay and desire)
by The Readers Muse
Summary: The morning of her sweet sixteen found her multi-tasking, trying to unhook her bra and brush her teeth at the same time. She was fixing her hair, trying to make sense of the reddish-brown tangle of sleep-mussed curls and an ill-tempered cow-lick when she saw it.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** A quick little thing because untapdtreasure was being a wiener and enables my vices.

**Warnings:** Like my first soul bond story this story will touch on elements of the 'soul mate,' 'fated,' 'one love bond' idea, only this one is a bit different. Centering around the idea of a 'soul mate identifying marks.' – The premise is that your soul mates first words to you are tattooed somewhere on your body. *****Contains: pre-series, references in dialogue to season one, vague religious references, young!carol, and mild adult content.

**I am destruction (decay and desire)**

She couldn't in good conscience deny that, deep down, she wasn't a romantic at heart. She grew up on a steady diet of fairy tales and pastels. She knew her favorite stories by heart – down to the last faded picture and misplaced comma.

She often listened, rapt and unmoving, whenever her grandmother lost track of herself and repeated the story – the one she must have heard a hundred times over – of how she and grandpa met. Pushing back her sleeve to trace the wrinkled skin around her mark, a soft, sad little smile gracing handsome features as the skin pulled taut and the words became clear.

"_Well, hell if you don't have the face of a god damned angel, thanks for the hand, sweetheart…"_

Young as she was, she'd been unable to help from wondering how her grandma had been able to bear it, considering that at the time, she'd been wrist deep in his internal organs. Fighting to save his life on the hospital floor as he'd thrashed, delirious. Helping a doctor stitch him up as another batch of wounded exploded through the revolving doors. She'd always found it terribly romantic that it'd all happened right then and there, in the middle of the action. Her grandma, glass and shrapnel in her hair, caught in the grips of a man who would ask for her hand the very next year, limping and cane-bound, but unequivocally in love.

It wasn't until much later, after a few years and more than a few heartbreaks, she realized that having been a civilian nurse during Pearl Harbor, her grandmother had probably seen much worse

She'd been a staunch believer in happy endings and the wholesomeness of a good old fashioned romance. She lived for period dramas and romantic comedies. She rooted for the damsel in distress and cheered when the tables turned and the beautiful heroine swooped in and saved her man. She wished, more than anything, for the idea of a passionate love. For the unquestionable certainty each and every person on Earth was given the night of their sixteenth birthday.

So, naturally, the years leading up to the day where she received her soul-mark were understandably wrought with unbridled anticipation.

She'd imagined it a hundred times, thought up a hundred different scenarios, a dozen different ways the words might etch themselves into her skin. It would be beautiful. Of that she'd had no doubt. His first words would be polite, refined, perhaps even elegant in their own way. They would be unique, but just innocuous enough that there would be a singular moment of doubt, enough to make the realization all the sweeter when the fates aligned and they finally came face to face.

Because while no one was sure exactly why it happened, or even how it worked, the one thing they_ did_ know was that it was _never _wrong. The person who said those words was your soul-mate, through and through. Everyone had one. And while sometimes it was hard to see, there was always a reason.

Her mother had always told her it was God's way of helping two people, who were meant to be together, find each other. It was about satisfaction, happiness, contentment and bliss and that life without it – without the script – was practically unthinkable because of it.

The morning of her sweet sixteen found her multi-tasking, trying to unhook her bra and brush her teeth at the same time. She was fixing her hair, trying to make sense of the reddish-brown tangle of sleep-mussed curls and an ill-tempered cow-lick when she saw it.

She nearly screeched aloud, caught between wriggling around for a better look and freezing completely as she eyed the tail end of a rough, abrasive looking scrawl, poking out from the waistband of her pajama pants.

"_Out in the dark's no good. Just be tripping over ourselves. More people would get lost."_

She'd cried buckets.

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**A/N #2:** Thank you for reading. Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! - This story is now complete.


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